


Ear of the Desperate

by plummuffins, Xailey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plummuffins/pseuds/plummuffins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xailey/pseuds/Xailey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was it really John who raised Sam and Dean or did Heaven's most powerful archangel have a hand in their lives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ear of the Desperate

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is our headcanon, really, on what happened with John after he lost Mary.  
> Disclaiming time. Let me state that this is not us excusing anything abusive John has done. We've been inspired by many things over a long, long Supernatural obsession and we've been working on this throughout the year. If you'd like to know our take on John Winchester, you can refer to this lovely post by a beautiful and total stranger: neraiutsuze.tumblr.com/post/67296163683
> 
> That being said, enjoy this. It's our baby. We'd absolutely _love_ any ideas or suggestions you guys may have! 
> 
> Let me reiterate the non-con/rape warning.

John stared up at the ceiling from where he lay on his hospital bed. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring--just that he now knew exactly how many tiles lined the expanse above him. He didn’t know what had gotten him here--not here in particular, but at a stage in his life when he realized one of his boys would likely never wake up. Sam had told John that Dean was in a coma, but that the reality of the situation was that he’d hit his head too hard in the accident. The machines were all he had keeping him alive.

Now John would lose someone else he couldn’t live without.

The nurse who walked in jolted him out of his mindless stare, reminding him of when he first woke in the bed. He’d been confused, tumbling to the ground in a panic--only finding out about the accident when Sam walked in a few hours later. Understandably, he did not recall the actual crash.

“Good morning, sir,” the nurse smiled at him. “This won’t hurt a bit.” She slipped a needle into the spot along the IV chord for injections. She lied, though. The pain medication seeped into his arm with a slight burn. It wasn’t anything worse than what he’d felt before--yet the principle of the lie drew his mind to a memory of another lie, from long ago.

~

_Despair. Loneliness. Hopelessness._

John dropped the bottle, discreetly wrapped in a brown paper sack, to the ground next to the trashcan. It was empty, of course, and happened to be his last of the two he had been carrying with him since the liquor store where he bought them, just down the street from the hotel he’d left his boys sleeping at.

It was only a month since the Fire. John had stuck around town only long enough to take care of the absolute necessities after his wife’s passing--such as paying for an empty grave and selling what remained of their home. He herded the boys into the Impala as fast as he could and skipped town. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew, just like he needed answers, he needed the comfort of an empty road and the roaring of the Impala’s engine.

They stopped a few towns over, the boys passing out wrapped up together in blankets on one of the beds. But John couldn’t fall asleep listening to the gentle baby-murmuring of Sam and the occasional soft crying of Dean in his sleep. Their father had slipped out of the room, walking to the liquor store to buy himself a cure.

Now he had been meandering around the park, drinking to stop the ache within. But no matter how much he tried to fill the hole with whiskey, he just felt it grow larger with each sip. After dropping the last bottle, John walked a few feet further before following it to the ground, his drunken brain not quite registering the pain of his knees meeting concrete.

He let out a sob he didn’t even know was there, feeling it tear from his body. Falling forward onto his hands, he screamed, punching the sidewalk and succeeding only in splitting his knuckles.

“Why her,” he shouted up at the starless sky, vision skewed by the nearby streetlight. “Why not me? Why leave me with these boys? I don’t know what to do! Why Mary...my everything...why _her_?” He was sitting back on his heels now, sobbing into his hands, not feeling the throbbing from his assault of the ground. He didn’t hear anyone approaching him, nor did he see anyone nearby, but he did hear the voice which spoke as clearly as if the speaker were right beside him.

“Why are you shouting to the sky?”

His sob caught in his throat in surprise and he looked around, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “W-who--”

“Were you hoping to speak to God?”

“I...I don’t know.” He didn’t see anyone near him at all. If he were less drunk, he’d be terrified, but instead he was simply confused. “Are you--”

“I am not God,” the voice sounded disinterested, seeming to not care it had just read John’s mind. “But I believe I can help you.”

“Who are you?” John was on his feet, spinning around. He looked up at the sky again, his vision caught by the streetlight. He addressed its glow when he spoke, as if it were somehow the source of the mysterious voice.

“I am Michael,” the voice hummed around him, and he felt the hairs on his arms and neck stick up from the sudden surge of energy, “I am an archangel of the Lord.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed in disbelief. “Oh sure you are. If there were angels, my wife would still be alive,” he snapped, starting to walk back the way he came.

“ _John Winchester_.” He stopped walking, an unexpected jolt of fear shooting through his body, rendering him immobile. “I would not lie to you. I am an archangel, and I am here to offer you my help in catching the one who slew your wife.”

He gasped, spinning back around to the light fixture and glaring up at it. “It was only a _fire_ , something electrical or set by some crazy kid...”

“You know that it was _not._ ”

The wind picked up around him and John shivered, closing his eyes and hugging himself subconsciously. “What...what do I have to do?”

“You need to say _yes_ , John. Surrender your body to be my vessel and I shall work with you to not only find your wife’s killer--but to raise your _sons_ as well.”

John inhaled sharply, tucking his head in and keeping his eyes closed. _What would saying yes mean?_

“Is there anyone better to raise your children than an angel?” The voice slid seductively around him, and he felt his foggy mind agree with it. “Just say yes, John,” it murmured across his skin, “It won’t hurt a bit.”

He took a deep breath. He said yes.

~

John drifted awake slowly, confused for a moment by the sounds of the monitor beside him as it calmly whirred and beeped occasionally. He was alone in his room, the curtains were open, however, revealing the starlight outside, the moon having slipped over the horizon already. He smiled at the twinkling lights, but the smile faded as he remembered once more that his son lay dying in the other room. A son he was meant to protect.

He closed his eyes to the moon, unconsciously reaching for the presence of an angel he knew was not there. He hated the feeling of helplessness. It reminded him of times long ago when he was just as helpless, but for a completely different reason.

As he lay there, he let his thoughts drift again to the past.

~

“John, get up.” John panted, clutching his sides as he felt blood begin to seep through his shirt onto his hands. At least two of his ribs were broken, and he was sure his right clavicle was, too, if not simply fractured.

“I..can’t.”

“Yes you can.” He heard rather than felt the sharp kick to his back, the action causing him to arch backwards and gasp as the air left his lungs. “John, _get up_.”

Why was he doing this? Oh yeah. John writhed, still unable to breathe as he struggled to get on his knees. _Training._ He was just catching his breath, clambering clumsily to his feet, sweat and blood leaking into his eyes as he tried to focus on the form in front of him. He felt a hand grip his chin, and winced from the contact despite himself.

“I knew you could,” Michael muttered softly, his thumb briefly caressing John’s cheek.

As soon as the hunter began to relax, his eyes focused on the angel before him. Michael’s form was human--a human who looked similar to John himself. They could have been brothers. This was the form Michael took when in this spiritual plane of existence within John’s mind. He didn’t move or speak, just stared into Michael’s eyes, his body shivering from the stress it had just undergone.

Michael held his gaze, his hazel eyes unreadable as ever, and eventually removed his hand from John’s chin. The hunter blinked in confusion at the sudden, unfamiliar loss he felt from the cease in contact between them. He took a step back. “Are we finished for the day?” They had been training every day for the past two months since John had said yes to the archangel, though not all of their training was physical. When they were not training, Michael generally took over John’s everyday life of travelling and caring for Sam and Dean, allowing the hunter to grieve, oblivious, until they were alone. Today they had finished early.

Michael’s lips twisted into a cruel sort of smile and he tilted his head to the side. John shivered involuntarily, suddenly feeling as though he were a bug on Michael’s metaphorical wall.

“Oh, not quite.”

The hunter frowned in confusion. “But I th--oof!” his question was cut off as Michael swept his feet out from under him, resulting in John landing on his back, his head bouncing off the concrete ground. His brain fuzzed, and he flailed helplessly as his body attempted to comprehend what had happened to it. Before he could do anything, or even try to breathe, the angel was straddling him, pinning the hunter’s arms above his head with one hand.

Michael looked down at the panicked face of the man below him, giving John another cold smirk before leaning down to his ear, his breath tickling it as he spoke. “Fight back.” After he spoke, the angel bit John’s neck roughly, and the hunter felt the sharp pain as he broke skin. Michael didn’t pause for a moment, moving to bite John’s shoulder, digging his teeth in until they again drew blood. John’s body regained some of it’s sense and the hunter bucked, trying to throw Michael off of him, and attempting to wrench his wrists from the iron grip.

“You’re not trying hard enough.” The angel drew his nails roughly down John’s chest, causing him to yelp as they too broke skin. He tried getting his feet under him to somehow gain leverage, but Michael leaned forward and captured his lips, sucking him into a kiss that tasted of his own blood. Against his better judgement, John’s body reacted to the kiss, and he unwittingly leaned forward to return it. He had not realized how much he missed simply being kissed. The angel’s kiss softened when John returned it, but after a moment John felt teeth sink into his lip and he cried out, his eyes shooting open to meet Michael’s. The lustful, hazel gaze was now very easy to read, and without a warning, the angel flipped John onto his stomach, twisting one of the hunters arms behind his back, asserting pressure in such a way that John could not push himself up. When he felt his jeans being torn away, the real panic set in, and he began to writhe violently, attempting to wrench himself away from the angel’s hold on him.

“Stop,” he gasped, his face pressed sideways to the ground, his other arm straining to push himself up in vain.

“ _Make me_ ,” the angel hissed, shoving himself into John’s unprepared body, eliciting a scream of pain from the hunter.

“I can’t!” He shouted, his writhing ceasing as his entire body clenched from the unwelcome intrusion.

“I know.” Michael leaned onto John’s body even more, pressing him harder onto the ground. He briefly brushed his lips against the back of the hunter’s neck before he moved again.

When the angel pulled his length out, only to thrust himself back in, John felt his entrance tearing and let out a pained sob. “S-stop...” His free hand clutched at empty air, curling uselessly into a fist on the hard concrete. The repetitive thrusts becoming slickened by the blood from the assault, quickening as Michael reached his climax, filling John. The mixture of the cum with the tearing resulted in an throbbing burn deep inside of him, and then the angel pulled himself out, at last releasing his hold on John.

The hunter lay there for what felt like forever, not moving even to remove his arm from his back where it was held. He could hear Michael move a bit away, but he could not see the angel--nor did he wish to. His body ached, not only from the rape but from the beating it took beforehand; he did not even have the strength to sob. Silent tears leaked from his eyes as his breathing stuttered, fast at first and then slowing to a pained weeze. Slowly, very slowly, John twitched his hand, and just as slowly sliding his arm off his back until it lay limp and useless at his side. It took him several more minutes before he slid his arms under himself, moaning as he pushed himself onto his hand and knees. The movement caused every part of him to howl in protest, and he let out a strangled sob as the pain shot through every limb. But he gingerly pushed himself to his knees, letting his torso gently straighten, but he had to pause for a minute as an intense wave of dizziness swept over him. When it subsided, he slid a knee out from under himself, placing foot on the ground. With a hissing sob, he shoved himself to his feet, stumbling slightly, but catching his balance in time before he fell. He looked down at what remained of his tattered boxers and torn t-shirt, and at the puddle of blood and semen on the floor where he lay. Hugging himself with one arm, the hunter looked up slowly until his eyes met Michael’s once more. He was surprised when he saw approval in the gaze, even more so when the angel walked over to him, reaching out to catch him before he actually fell.

“Well done,” Michael murmured, his hands gentle as they ghosted over the wounds he had caused, the touch so much the opposite of its predecessor that John felt himself relaxing under it. He fell forward against the angel, his head resting on Michael’s shoulder as his body remembered to shake once more. “I’m sorry, John,” he breathed, “But you have to be ready.” Michael rubbed a hand soothingly along the hunter’s back, lacing his free fingers into John’s hair. John curled a hand into the fabric of the shirt Michael wore, beginning to sob, the sound muffled by the angel’s shoulder. The wounds all over John began to slowly mend themselves while the angel hummed softly, swaying slightly as he did.

~

He was beginning to see what he had to do.

John stared at the ceiling, briefly reflecting on his limited choice of views.  There was no doubt in his mind that if he didn’t do something his son was never going to wake up.  Hundreds of unanswered prayers assured him the archangel was no doubt never coming back so he couldn’t rely on him for help.  This was on him to fix it and this time he could.  It wasn’t like before when he was ignorant of so much, unable to make a difference.  He had learned.

John had fought  for his country and protected those who knew nothing of the unseen world around them.  He hoped this would warrant him a place in Heaven.  But Michael had been preparing him to withstand Hell.  That was what they had been training for.  The better he could withstand pain the longer it would take him to break under the tortures in Hell.  He hadn’t been told why this was important, just that it was.  So every session he did his best to just get through the day.  John could remember when the thought of training didn’t come with the idea of pain.

 ~

The first time they had gone to the plane of existence inside his mind it had been odd. Michael had brought them there shortly after he had said yes and puppeted John’s body back to his hotel. All around him was dull grey stretching out for miles and a light mist curled around his ankles. There was a distant thrumming in the background like the sound of the ocean. It had taken John by surprise to see an exact replica of himself standing in front of him.

“Michael?”

“Yes John, it’s me.” the replica replied.

“Why do you look exactly like me.” John asked.

“You are my vessel, this is what I currently look like.” he said, “I can change if it unsettles you.”

“Please do.”

Michael’s features began to change. His face thinned out, his eyes became a little greener, there was a collection of freckles across his nose, and he looked younger. They still looked very similar, but no longer exactly the same. John still felt weird, but at least he didn’t have to stare at his double.

“Where are we?”

“We’re inside your mind, John.” Even Michael’s voice sounded different, “We’re here so I can train you.”

“Train me? For what?”

“I have business in Heaven and won’t always be here so I need to first teach you to be a hunter.”

The first thing Michael taught John was how to manipulate the mind plane. Before long the grey expanse and fog melted away and was replaced by a large room. At one end was a wide fireplace and shelves filled with books lined the walls. A few armchairs and a couch had been pulled up to the fireplace. Near the center of the room was a large desk on top of which sat a green glass lamp. The whole place was very neat and tidy, just the way John thought any place of Michael’s would be.

It was there that the archangel taught John everything he needed to be a hunter. He taught him about vampires and werewolves and wendigos, how to exorcise demons, and how to ward a building. The human would sit at he desk and take notes he could copy in the waking world in a notebook while Michael walked around and dictated like a professor. Occasionally he would lean over the desk to look at his notes and make corrections as he saw fit. John remembered one such situation when he had been copying sigils from the chalkboard that had been rolled up in front of the desk. He had been drawing a symbol to ward against demons when he felt the angel come up behind him.

“This symbol needs to have a softer curve and be less rigid.” he said, leaning forward, his chest resting against John’s back. There was a puff of warm breath on John’s cheek as he spoke, “Here, like this.”

Michael placed his hand over the hunter’s and began to guide the pencil in the correct pattern. John could feel his face heating up and he tried not to think about how it felt to have the other man’s body pressed against his own. Surely he would be used to it by now, he thought.

It was not unusual for the archangel to use his own body to guide him. Besides learning about monsters and taking notes, Michael also taught him to fight. His time in the military both meant John could fight and handle an assortment of weapons already, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a lot to learn from the millenias old being. He learned something new every day that he would never have imagined he could have possibly learned. The style of fighting used only by the angels, ancient Egyptian hand to hand combat, and even a technique developed in Atlantis before it went down. Often Michael would touch him to move his limbs into the correct positions rather than just showing him. John considered asking him to stop, but he wasn’t sure he was able to make demands of an archangel or in fact that he actually wanted him to stop.

When they weren’t training and Michael was in complete control of his body, John would sit in one of the chairs by the fire and read the books on the shelf.

“They are filled with all of my knowledge.” said the archangel when asked where they came from.

After a time, John learned to access the mind plane himself when Michael was gone. The books always went with him. They weren’t a copy of his knowledge as the hunter had originally thought, a but a manifestation of it which meant no angel, no books. He felt lonely in the library room during those times. Without the books the room just seemed empty and cold and perhaps, even if he didn’t want to admit it, the room was missing the presence of Michael as well.


End file.
